Pirate Queen

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Speaking to Sidney in the Latin tongue they both understand, she tells him that she knows the exact number of Elizabeth’s ships and the size and armaments of their crews. ‘They are not enough to subdue this coast,’ she assures him. ‘Not if the seafaring tribes of the west stand against you.’

  It is a bluff, but Granuaile is a trader who long ago learned the art of bluffing. Fortunately Sidney cannot hear her heart pounding beneath her cloak. ‘I command both the O’Malley and the O’Flaherty fleets,’ she adds. ‘I am sure you know of our many successes in sea battles.’

  Sidney is watching her very carefully. He does not once look past her to Richard, who stands in silence behind her.

  At last the Englishman props his elbows on the table and leans forward. ‘I have heard of you, Grace O’Malley,’ he pronounces her name in the English way. ‘You are a notorious woman in all the coasts of Ireland.’

  Granuaile does not disagree.

  ‘I have come to offer you three galleys and two hundred men,’ she says calmly. ‘They will be a great asset. I am sure you would rather have them with you than against you.’

  He nods, slowly. ‘What do you ask in return?’

  ‘Simply to be left alone in my own place. There is nothing of value for you in Clew Bay. A few stone forts, fishing grounds, a goodly amount of seaweed – I am certain you have more to gain elsewhere, and for less effort.’

  Sidney nods again. ‘All you ask is to be left alone?’

  ‘That is all.’

  He rubs his chin. ‘I suppose it is not too much to ask.’

  Clew Bay is nothing to him, Granuaile tells herself. But it is the world to me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Bold Plan

  The morning is radiant. Granuaile leaves the tower house on Clare Island to walk along the headland, gazing out over the water. Clew Bay has never looked more beautiful to her. She has pitted her wits against the foreigners and succeeded. There are no English warships at the mouth of the bay. The O’Malleys can fish and trade without hindrance. The Bourke holdings around the shore are undisturbed.

  Tibbott, miles away in Kinturk Castle, can sleep safely in his bed.

  She descends the narrow path to the tiny inlet below the tower house. This is her private bay, one of her favourite places. A crescent of pure white sand slopes into water the colour of a peacock’s tail. It is so clear she can see the individual grains of sand on the bottom. Granuaile always has a small boat or two hidden away in the caves that ring the inlet.

  She stands for a long time, musing. The sun is warm on her head. The sea birds cry, adding their voices to that of the wind. Otherwise all is silent. It might be a thousand years ago or a thousand years from now. And she is a part of it.

  It is time to take out the fishing fleet. As she makes her preparations, Granuaile can feel the tide rising in the bay. Even with her eyes closed, she knows the exact conditions of the sea.

  But they will change tomorrow.

  Her eyes open abruptly.

  The water is very calm. A few gentle swells, nothing more. Yet there is a faint, unpleasant scent on the wind. A sour smell. Suddenly Granuaile throws up her head, every sense quivering.

  April, the Year of Our Lord 1577, Clare Island

  Dear Toby,

  Sidney has promised that my people and I will be left alone, but I do not believe him. When a little time has passed he will think of some reason to invade Umhall Ui Mhaille. I know it as I know when the herring are running.

  I must convince the English that I am too strong to challenge. Murrough of the Battle-Axes did this and gained a chieftaincy. I have no desire for an illegal title awarded by foreigners. I only want to impress the English with my power.

  A bold plan has occurred to me. Instead of fishing, I am going to sail south along the coast as far as Limerick. The earl of Desmond counts all that territory as his. He is one of the great Anglo-Norman overlords like Clanrickard or the earl of Ormond. Many years ago, when one of the English kings was trying to conquer Ireland, he awarded their ancestors vast tracts of Irish land in return for their services. Now they rule those lands like kings themselves. During my years of trade I have sold many luxury goods to them, so I know.

  A successful raid against one of the great lords should convince the English that I am a force to be respected.

  We will sail up the Shannon until we find a safe anchorage. There are many little inlets along the great river. Surely one of them will be so isolated that no one will see us. Guards will be posted to stay with the boats while I take the rest of my men inland. Raiding ashore is unlike sea raiding, Toby. On land we must advance under cover of darkness or hide ourselves in the forest. Otherwise our prey will be warned. It is important to keep the element of surprise. This rule has served me well on the sea and should be just as true on land.

  The sea is familiar territory. I can never master the sea but I understand her. The land is a new challenge, a challenge I shall enjoy.

  Always,

  Granuaile

  Chapter Sixteen

  Attacking the Great Earl

  The sky is black velvet. Granuaile has waited deliberately for dark of the moon. She signals to her men to advance cautiously. Twigs crackle underfoot. Leafless branches claw at them like fingers. She passes the word to be as quiet as possible. The clink of metal weapons could give them away. However, they seem to be alone in the night.

  Their first venture into Desmond territory is already a success. Granuaile and her men have raided the outlying holdings of the earl’s kinsmen and seized quantities of plunder. Porters have carried great loads of furs, grain, and leathers back to the waiting galleys in the Shannon, to transport to Clew Bay.

  Granuaile has not gone back to Mayo with the ships. They were ordered to unload their cargo and return immediately. She plans to have an even larger treasure waiting for them when they arrive.

  Together with a handpicked force of her best fighting men, on this night she is striking into Desmond’s very heart.

  The earl’s principle residence is Askeaton Castle, which occupies a rocky limestone island in the Deel River. The castle is a typical Norman design. The island is encircled with a stone wall and guarded by a watchtower at the southern end. Another stone wall, or bailey, encloses a central court, and a great keep stands on the northern end. The fortress looks too strong to capture, but Granuaile knows better. Any castle so large must have a weakness somewhere.

  Desmond himself is away, perhaps in England. Granuaile imagines him grovelling before Elizabeth. Bowing his head. A hound pleading to be petted rather than kicked. She feels contempt for him.

  In the earl’s absence, Askeaton’s guards may be careless. The raiding party is counting on it. Granuaile intends to attack the castle and carry Desmond’s treasures home to Rockfleet in triumph. If he wants them back, let him come crawling to her as the lord of Howth crawled for his son.

  A mighty tide surges through her veins. This is better than wine or mead or even strong French brandy. Granuaile is intoxicated.

  The dark outline of the castle looms ahead. She pauses to take a deep breath and enjoy the moment. Then she gives the signal.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Limerick Gaol

  Granuaile and her men approach the outer wall of Desmond’s stronghold under cover of darkness. They are delighted to find a postern gate unguarded. As quick as thought they rush through. Before the last of them clears the opening they are surrounded.

  Too late, they realise that the open gate was a trap.

  Desmond’s men are well armed with swords and muskets. Granuaile has always valued the element of surprise, but this time she is the one surprised. Although her band fights valiantly it is no use. They are greatly outnumbered.

  Among Desmond’s men are native Irishmen whose services have been purchased with the earl’s gold. Granuaile even recognises some Scottish gallowglasses fighting beside the Old English. She screams her rage and attacks the nearest man.

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sp; Her men are falling, dying all around her. Yet miraculously, or so it seems at the time, no one shoots or stabs Granuaile. Desmond’s men are careful to take her alive.

  She is thrown into the dungeon of Askeaton Castle. No food is brought to her, nor water, until the next day. Then she is treated like a hound that will not hunt. Her gaolers curse at her and kick her when they can get close enough. They tell her nothing of the fate of her men. They will not answer any questions at all.

  Time passes, but she does not know how much. She is too dazed.

  When she is weak with hunger Granuaile is bound hand and foot, slung across the back of a horse and taken to Limerick town. For the first time she sees some of her men. At least two have survived. They are tied together and marched along behind her horse. When one of them stumbles, he is beaten.

  By the time they reach Limerick Granuaile feels as if her ribs are crushed. But there is worse to come. She and her men are dragged up before an English magistrate who sentences them to prison. For her crimes, Granuaile is condemned to stay in Limerick Gaol for eighteen months. Or more, as the queen sees fit.

  June, the Year of Our Lord 1577, Limerick Gaol

  My dear Toby,

  I pray that this letter reaches you. One of my gaolers was sympathetic when I told him I had a small son. He had a young lad himself, he said. I pleaded with him to help me send word to you. At last he agreed – if I gave him all the jewellery on my person. Unfortunately I do not wear much when I am raiding. A few gold rings, a brooch set with gemstones. Please God it is enough.

  If this message reaches you, please tell your father what has happened. He is not to attempt anything foolish. It would be unbearable if my capture brought punishment upon my people.

  Ask Richard to send word to Melaghlin O’Malley as well. And pray for me.

  Always,

  Granuaile

  At night she sleeps on a bare stone floor, with no straw under her and no blanket over her. The stones are gritty against her cheek. Rats scuttle through the darkness. Sometimes one, braver than the others, runs across her feet.

  In the morning she is so stiff she can hardly move. She makes desperate rowing motions with her elbows as she raises her upper body. Every muscle screams with pain. Her skin and hair are crawling with fleas. Although she claws at her flesh until she brings blood, nothing will stop the itch of the fleabites.

  She struggles to her feet and begins to pace the cell. There is nothing else to do, day after day. Three steps this way, three steps back. No animal would be penned in so small a space. There is no window, only a tiny grille through which her gaolers can watch her. Twice a day she is given a small meal of coarse black bread and dried fish. The bread contains small chips of stone left from the milling process. The fish is almost too salty to eat and makes her desperately thirsty. A small, slimy bucket holds the only drinking water. When the bucket is empty it is not refilled until the next day.

  Prisoners are the same as hostages, Granuaile thinks. Under Gaelic law, hostages are treated as well as one’s own family.

  English law is different.

  The men captured with her are in another cell in another part of the gaol. She is not allowed to see them. She is not allowed to see anyone. Being alone and isolated is part of her punishment.

  Granuaile wants to beat on the door with her fists and howl like a wolf, but she will not give the enemy that satisfaction. From time to time, men come and peer into her cell. Although she can hear the rumble of their voices they do not speak to her. Once she hears someone referred to as ‘Lord Fitzgerald’ and knows the earl of Desmond himself stands outside. Gloating over his captive.

  She clenches her fists but will not call out to him for mercy.

  In November, one of her gaolers – the one who had agreed to send her letters to Toby – brings worrying news.

  Desmond’s loyalty to Elizabeth has long been in question. Great lords act like kings in their own right. The earl’s family, the Fitzgeralds, have rebelled against the Crown before. Years ago they even appealed to England’s enemies on the continent for help. Desmond himself has been trying to appease the queen of late. To prove that he is a faithful servant of the Crown, he is going to surrender Granuaile to Lord Justice Drury. Drury is the president of Munster and stands very high in Elizabeth’s favour.

  Granuaile has no idea what Drury will do with her. She is very closely guarded, so there is no possibility of escape. Except in her dreams at night.

  In her dreams she goes down to the shore and smells the sea wind. In her dreams she runs barefoot along the strand.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Weight of Fear

  Although Granuaile is now officially in Drury’s custody, he leaves her to rot in Limerick Gaol.

  Her thoughts are a thunder inside her head.

  The weary months drag on. Nothing changes but herself. Until Granuaile was thrown in prison, her active life had kept her as strong as a girl. Now that she is confined in a cramped cell, age is catching up with her. When she holds up one of her arms she sees the flesh sagging from the bone. She feels a hot flash of fury. What remains of youth is being stolen from her!

  Smuggled letters from Toby give her hope. ‘We are going to try to get you out,’ he writes. ‘Do not worry, we will be very careful.’

  She takes heart, stands taller, imagines herself free.

  Nothing happens. Gradually fear becomes a sick lump in her belly. Granuaile wakes with it in the morning, lies down with it at night. But a she-king cannot admit to anyone that she is afraid. It is something she can only whisper to God in the quiet of the night.

  Meanwhile Drury writes to Elizabeth’s privy council. In the lord justice’s letter he describes his captive as ‘Granny O’Mayle, a woman that hath impudently passed the part of womanhood and been a great spoiler, and chief commander and director of thieves and murderers at sea.’

  The Privy Council commends Desmond for his capture of such a dangerous person. The earl is back in favour. But not for long – he refuses to pay massive taxes and he refuses to accept the Protestant religion. An open war is declared between himself and the Crown, a war that explodes across the face of southern Ireland.

  In the far distance, cannon boom. Deep within the walls of her prison, Granuaile cannot hear them.

  Winter becomes spring, becomes summer, becomes autumn.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dublin Castle

  November, the Year of Our Lord 1578, Dublin Castle

  My dear Toby,

  I have exchanged one gaol for another. Drury has sent me to Dublin, where I am given into the custody of the new lord justice. Fortunately I have found someone who agreed to smuggle this letter out to you. I only hope it reaches you.

  Together with the two men who were captured with me at Askeaton, I was brought to Dublin in a pony cart. The English feared to transport us by sea, lest my fleet rescue us. We were accompanied by a number of English guards on foot and on horseback. The journey over land was long and tiresome. There is no road across Ireland, merely a network of rutted, often muddy trackways. The cart jounced and jolted me until I felt as if my bones were breaking through my skin. How I missed the broad highway of the sea! But at least I was under open sky again.

  I have learned to appreciate such blessings.

  As we travelled I saw terrible sights, Toby. Ireland is being destroyed. Desmond’s rebellion has resulted in the rich fields of Munster being laid waste. Crops are burned, cattle slaughtered, houses pulled down. Peasants stood a safe distance from the road and shook their fists at us as we passed. They shouted curses upon all foreigners, lords and princes. Our guards ignored them, but I could not. I understood what they were feeling.

  When we reached Leinster, we saw garrisons of soldiers everywhere. The farms within the Pale looked prosperous, however, and the houses were not burnt.

  People paid little attention to us as we entered the gates of Dublin town. The sight of Irish prisoners arriving in chains has become all
too common. Only the urchins in the street noticed me. Once I strode these streets as the respected captain of a fleet. Shop owners paid court to me then, eager for my custom. Now small boys feel free to shout insults. I bit my thumbnail at them, a custom I acquired during my travels.

  Dublin Castle is a dreadful place, my son. The sight of it chills the heart. This is no welcoming stronghold in times of trouble. The queen’s administrators rule much of Ireland from here with a clenched fist.

  The castle is solidly built of stone and surrounded by a deep trench. Over this, a drawbridge gives the only entry to the castle yard. Within the building are countless chambers and airless passageways, barred doorways and locked iron gates. A well-used gallows throws its dark shadow across the filthy cobbles of the inner yard.

  The dungeons below the castle ring night and day with cries of despair. People are executed here for crimes much smaller than mine. Many are Palesmen, loyal to the queen. Yet they are called traitors because they cannot pay the high taxes imposed upon them. The queen’s government is always desperate for money, it seems. Yet the English have no understanding of the desperation of others.

  Just this morning a poor lad no older than you was taken, kicking and screaming, and hanged. He had stolen a wee bit of bread. He cried out that his mother and sisters would die of hunger without him, but the authorities took no notice. They call this English justice! Under Gaelic law he would have been fed if he was starving, and his family too. But our laws are thrown down.

  The two men who were brought here with me are being hanged tomorrow. For their loyalty to me they are condemned.